


i've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

by vlieger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger





	i've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

It had been nineteen months, six days and seven hours since Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of St Bart's when John walked into their flat and found Sherlock sitting in his usual chair, fingertips touching the underside of his chin, eyes on the door. 

John stopped short in the entranceway. 

Sherlock looked at him silently. John stared back. 

"Right then," he said, nodding, and walked briskly to his room. 

He locked the door behind him, sat down on the bed and stared altogether too calmly at the wall. 

Obviously it was an hallucination, and not wholly unexpected. Most nights when he was sitting alone in his old chair, eyes stinging with tiredness and dark blanketing everything outside the windows, seeping into the flat, he could all but see Sherlock opposite him in his own chair, fingers steepled under his chin or curled up in frustration at the television against his thighs. 

Really, he should have left Baker Street. He had, for a bit at the start, after…well. He'd camped out a few nights on Mike and Lestrade and even Harry's couch respectively, and then he'd come back to 221B fully intending to pack up his stuff and make other arrangements, but he just…couldn't. There was Mrs Hudson, who for all she wasn't their housekeeper kept fluttering about the place looking lost, drifting up and down the stairs so often John had to forcibly sit her down with a heat pack on her hip. Then there were Sherlock's things, all where he'd left them, the music spread out in the light beneath the window, the skull still perched on the mantelpiece, and it had just seemed wrong, leaving all that behind. He couldn't, not yet. Not when he was the only one who knew for certain that Sherlock had always been _Sherlock_ , that all the clutter and now worryingly comforting stray body parts were the whirlwind detritus of a mad, infuriating, _real_ genius. 

"John?" came Sherlock's voice from outside the door exactly thirty seconds later. "This isn't precisely the reaction I imagined you'd have."

John said nothing. 

"John?" said Sherlock again. "Are you having some sort of psychotic break? I only factored a five per cent probability for that-- you've proven yourself unusually collected in the past." He sounded vaguely annoyed that his calculations had been so off. 

John started laughing hysterically. 

"John," said Sherlock, the forced patience draining rapidly from his voice, "I _will_ break the door down."

"Alright, alright," said John hastily, choking down the laughs and limping to open the door. "No need for any more of your dramatics so soon after-- " He trailed off. 

"I'm hardly the one to be accused of dramatics, John," said Sherlock. 

John stared at him. "You jumped off a roof," he said. "You are, for all intents and purposes, literally _back from the dead_."

"Hardly literally," said Sherlock, waving a hand. "Really, you know how I loathe such linguistic butchery."

"I am hallucinating, right?" said John. 

Something complicated flitted across Sherlock's face-- which, John noted now, looked thinner than he recalled, startlingly hollow cheeks and bruised-looking eyes-- something pained in a way he wasn't usually pained, sad and wary and soft. "No, John, you're not hallucinating," he said quietly. 

"Right then," said John again, and punched him in the face.

 

"You're a git," said John, watching from his chair as Sherlock stood by the window holding a napkin to his cheek. He looked rather petulant considering, as he'd informed John in a satisfied voice from where he'd ended up sprawled across the hallway, the likelihood of a violent reaction had been close to seventy per cent. "No, really, I'm un _believably_ pissed at you right now."

"Yes, I anticipated as much," said Sherlock. "However, various remarks of yours in the past, not the least of which would be your farewell at my gravestone, have led me to believe that we are friends."

John blinked. "How-- no, right, of course you were there." He shook his head. "Friends don't let friends believe they're _dead_ for nineteen months." 

"Friends protect people," said Sherlock. 

John stared at him. He felt anatomically incorrect, like his heart was stretching too big, squeezing all the air from his lungs. "Sherlock-- "

"You were going to _die_ ," said Sherlock. "Do you understand that, John? Moriarty would have killed you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had I not jumped. There was no way to stop him. Since one scenario ended with three people dead and the other ended with none, I assumed the latter was preferable."

"We didn't know it was none," said John quietly. It wasn't exactly a chastisement, just...it had _hurt_ , and he wasn't going to lie about it. 

"You couldn't," said Sherlock. "It was imperative."

John breathed out sharply.

"I understand that you were…hurt," said Sherlock, stilted.

"Do you?" said John.

Sherlock turned to look out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. He was still wearing his coat, John noticed belatedly, like he was waiting for John to take it from him, offer him a seat, offer…something. "While I was away I had opportunity to…reflect," he said. 

John waited. Sherlock made a frustrated noise low in his throat, but John wasn't going to give him this one. 

"I maintain that my actions were necessary, but I." He stopped again. "There was something…lacking."

"Lacking," echoed John.

"Much as I deride the unnecessary and generally inconvenient nature of emotional attachments," said Sherlock, "There was something lacking in companionship, yes."

"Are you trying to say that you missed me?" said John, tilting his head. 

Sherlock waved a hand. 

John nodded. "Apology accepted," he said.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "I wasn't-- " Then he stopped. "Thank you," he said instead.

 

Sherlock had just finished regaling John with the details of his spectacular not-death when they heard Mrs Hudson climbing the stairs. "John dear," she called, "I know you said not to bother with tea but I made a cuppa for myself and you did have a dreadfully long day at the-- " John started from his chair too late; the cup and saucer shattered across the landing. 

"Mrs Hudson-- " started John, but Sherlock cut across. 

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," he said. "I would like a cup of tea. And some biscuits, if you have any."

John watched her carefully; God knew he could do without her fainting and tumbling down the stairs. 

She stared at Sherlock silently, mouth open, then abruptly-- and surprisingly nimbly-- marched across the floor and slapped him resoundingly across the cheek.

"Young man, I am not your housekeeper," she said. 

Then she reached up to pat gently where she'd hit and they both watched, silenced, as she walked dignifiedly from the room. 

"I'll leave you boys to clean up the mess, shall I?" she called from somewhere halfway down the stairs.

John snorted. Sherlock reached up to palm at his cheek; the same one probably still stinging from the cut John's knuckles had glanced across it. 

"That was somewhat less than expected," he said thoughtfully. 

John rolled his eyes. "Let me see that," he said curtly, stepping up closer to Sherlock and reaching to cup a hand over his jaw, tilt his head into the light. Sherlock held perfectly still, not even breathing.

John held on longer than he needed; he could feel Sherlock's pulse beating against the tips of his fingers and he couldn't quite bring himself to move away. 

"Right," he said eventually, clearing his throat and stepping back. "You should put some disinfectant on that."

"Yes," said Sherlock, watching him. He didn't move.

John rolled his eyes again. "For God's sake," he said. "Sit down."

Sherlock smiled; the first time he had done, as far as John knew, since before the roof.

 

"I'm tired," announced Sherlock later, setting down the cup of tea Mrs Hudson had brought up after a respectable enough length of time.

John looked up from the telly he'd been watching more for Sherlock's watery reflection in the glass than anything else. "Huh?" he said. "Oh, of course. How long since you last slept?"

Sherlock raised one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "In Prague, maybe," he said. 

John nodded. "Well, since I don't imagine you'll be sending yourself to bed again anytime in the near future, you should go ahead," he said. 

Sherlock stood and moved towards his room. John watched him. He'd removed his coat and John could see now how the thinness had crept all over his body; his hips were sharper, his wrists thinner. He looked infinitely more breakable than he ever had before. John thought about swapping their usual biscuits for something with more sugar. Maybe chocolate. 

Sherlock would throw a snit, of course, but he'd eat them. 

"My bedroom isn't how I left it," said Sherlock, wandering back into the living room. 

"Of course it isn't bloody well how you left it," said John. "You've been gone nineteen months, Sherlock."

"Six days and seven hours," said Sherlock, nodding once. "I could give you the minutes, if you'd like. Would that help?"

"Why-- stop it. What are you trying to do?" John's voice cracked a little. He must be tireder than he thought. 

"Nothing," said Sherlock after a silence. "I'm sorry."

John looked back at the TV. Sherlock didn't move, hovering behind John's chair. 

"What?" said John. "Don't tell me you want the telly off. God knows I've put up with your playing the violin in the middle of the night enough times." Also I thought you were dead, he didn't say. 

"No," said Sherlock. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight," said John quietly. 

He listened to Sherlock move off again; waited for the click of his bedroom door but it never came. He glanced over the back of his chair. Sherlock had left the door ajar, which he'd never done the few times John had seen him actually use his bedroom. It felt wrong, somehow, that Sherlock should have changed in the time he'd been away. John wondered about it, all the little things Sherlock hadn't mentioned, didn't think were of any consequence: where he'd slept, what he'd eaten, whether he'd voiced his thoughts out loud or kept them quiet in absence of anyone to talk to.

Did he find anyone to talk to. Had he said anything outside of the obligatory at all in the past nineteen months.

He switched the telly off and twisted to look at Sherlock's door instead, like some ingrained kick into watch-duty. 

He wondered how long it would take to not worry that Sherlock might disappear again. 

He wondered if he'd wake up and find this had never happened.

"John?" called Sherlock after a moment. "I can hear you thinking."

"So go to sleep," said John.

"I can't, it's distracting."

John sighed. "I know it's a foreign concept to you, but some of us don't actually know what's going on in everyone else's heads."

There was a rustling sound, and then Sherlock appeared in his doorway. "You think I might leave again," he said. He sounded surprised, which was…gratifying. 

"No," said John. "Not really. I don't know." 

The 'I don't understand ordinary people and I don't like it' crease appeared between Sherlock's brows. 

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," said John. 

"As this conversation is in danger of becoming circular," said Sherlock, "I shall say this: I'm not going to leave again, John. I was meticulous in ensuring that my return would be permanent."

"I know," said John. 

Sherlock frowned. "You're being hideously unclear," he said huffily. 

"Bloody hell," said John, standing and pushing Sherlock back into his room with a hand flat against his sternum. Sherlock went easily. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, only his shoes removed, socked feet shuffling as John all but walked him back until he was sitting on the bed. He switched the light off, walked around to the empty side, kicked off his shoes and jeans and climbed under the covers. 

"Well?" he said. "Get in, and if I hear one more complaint so help me I will punch you again."

There was a long, palpable silence-- John could hear Sherlock deducing, trying to figure it out, and then Sherlock pulled the covers over himself and stretched out beside John. It was strange; John had sat next to him so many times in taxis, on their couch, across from him in their chairs, but this was different, closer and far more intimate. 

He'd wondered about these things when he'd thought Sherlock was dead; all the things he still didn't know about Sherlock. How long it took him to get to sleep, how he slept when he was just _sleeping_ rather than in a drug-induced unconsciousness, whether he snored or twitched or had nightmares. How long he slept at a time. Did he sprawl on his back or front or stretch out board-thin or curl up on his side. 

John himself was a light sleeper, courtesy of Her Majesty's Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He woke easily even when he wasn't hounded by nightmares and that, added to Sherlock's even breaths next to him in the dark, his warmth seeping into John's side, was comforting enough that maybe he could close his eyes and actually drift off, here in Sherlock's barely-touched, suddenly _impossibly_ full bedroom. 

Sherlock grunted a sudden, petulant sound of confusion. 

"Not everything is logical, Sherlock," said John.

Sherlock made a grumpy noise of reluctant acquiescence. John smiled.

 

When John woke the next morning it was before Sherlock, and obviously then he had to spend a good ten minutes just staring at him like a complete nutter. In his defence it was probably something no one but Sherlock's mother-- and no one at all after Sherlock was maybe five years old-- had ever had the chance to do. 

Something John had always wanted to do in an abstract, curious kind of way, and something that until about twelve hours ago he thought he'd never get to.

Sherlock looked decidedly less alien with his eyes closed and his hair an even wilder-than-usual tangle across his forehead. 

His mouth was soft, a lull somewhere between his concentrated frown and manic grin that he never wore-- probably didn't know how to-- when he was awake.

He looked a little less ill than he had last night but there was still an unhealthy tinge to his skin, a worrying prominence to his cheekbones. 

John resisted the sudden choking urge to touch where a particularly damp-looking curl brushed against Sherlock's temple and eased himself quietly out of bed to make tea instead.

When Sherlock wandered into the kitchen-- he'd dug his dressing-gown out of the boxes John had half-heartedly started filling and quickly abandoned-- John was somewhat more collected, sitting at the table with tea and a newspaper. "Tea's on the counter," he said without looking up, nodding in that general direction. 

Sherlock picked up his mug and heaved a heavy, gut-swoopingly familiar sigh. 

John glanced up from the paper. "If you even think about saying you're-- "

"I'm _bored_ ," said Sherlock dramatically. 

John set the newspaper down with an incredulous sigh. "You have not been back in this flat twenty-four hours," he said sternly. "As far as I'm concerned, you haven't been _alive_ twenty-four hours. You're just back from God only knows where doing God only knows what-- "

"That doesn't alleviate the fact that I'm _bored_ ," said Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "Go to the shop, if you're so bored. We're out of biscuits."

Obviously he'd do nothing of the sort, which was probably a good thing, since John had serious opinions about letting him leave the house unsupervised at any point in the foreseeable future.

Sherlock didn't dignify the suggestion with a response. Instead he said, "Where's your phone? I'm going to text Lestrade."

"You are not," said John. 

Sherlock looked dangerously close to pouting. 

"Sherlock, the man thinks you're dead, you are _not_ going to inform him otherwise via text."

"Then I'll go down to the station."

John palmed at his forehead. "Not even twenty-four hours," he muttered. 

"I can hardly be expected to just lay about, John," said Sherlock, looking horrified at the thought. 

"Hope springs eternal," said John sarcastically. 

Sherlock shot him a look. "Nonsense. Besides, I see you've been providing the occasional consult for Lestrade."

John sat back and folded his arms. "Alright, go on then," he said. 

Sherlock waved a hand. "Dust on your coat. There's a construction site beside the station. Of course there are construction sites all over London, but rather fewer, I imagine, with workers wearing the particularly heinous brand of perfume favoured by Sergeant Donovan. It's faint, not enough to suggest a more intimate encounter-- for which good taste I applaud you-- but you've spent time with her in another capacity, probably in the last week or so. There are also traces of iodine and phenolphthalein on your shirt cuffs-- the lab at St Bart's, of course."

"Of course," said John. He wanted to roll his eyes but it took most of his concentration to stop from smiling too hard. 

When he looked up Sherlock looked pleased too-- or slightly less annoyed, which was practically the same thing. "I have missed an enraptured audience," he said. 

He was looking at John with his head tilted and an oddly quiet expression for his earlier words.

"Finish your tea," said John, shaking out his newspaper and coughing. "You can come with me next time Lestrade calls. If you don't whine about it I might even tell him not to punch you."

 

"You've been surprisingly level-headed about my return," said Sherlock later, apropos of nothing. "Level-headed even for you."

John shrugged. He wasn't quite sure what to say to that. _I never really thought you were dead_. Or _I did think you were dead, but I was pathetic over it and couldn't move on_. Maybe even _It's not so hard to fall back into things when half the time I used to pretend you were still around anyway_. They were all a little bit true. The truth was that with Sherlock there were no half-measures; you either gave yourself over completely or not at all. It had taken John a little longer the first time. He didn't need time to think a second time 'round-- not when he'd thought there wouldn't be a second time. 

Sherlock was watching him, fingers steepled under his chin. His face was unreadable. 

John shrugged again. "I guess I'm just still used to you," he said at last. "You're not exactly easy to forget."

"No," said Sherlock slowly. "I suppose not."

He kept watching John, like he hadn't got everything he wanted out of his response.

John shifted under the scrutiny and said, mostly because it would distract Sherlock in one way or another, "Does Mycroft know?"

"Yes," said Sherlock after a pause. 

"You told him?" said John, surprised. 

"Of course not," said Sherlock derisively. 

"Right," said John, nodding. "But it's Mycroft."

"Precisely." Sherlock inclined his head.

John nodded again. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything more about being bored, not yet, but there was a tightness settled about his eyes that John didn't like.

"Dinner?" he said. "We could go out."

Sherlock pursed his lips, considering. "Very well," he said.

 

"Sherlock," said John slowly as they walked home, "I-- thank you."

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't even look at him, but a furrow appeared between his brows.

John snorted. "You could just ask," he said. 

Sherlock made an annoyed sound. 

"For doing…what you did. The whole being dead but not thing. It-- well, it can't have been easy. And I know why you did it. Why you had to."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, but John caught the slight incline of his head, the somewhat sad curve of his half smile. 

"But also," added John mildly, lightening his voice after a pause where it felt distressingly like trying to catch a breath he couldn't quite find, "If you ever do something so dangerous and _impacting my life_ again without consulting me, I-- "

Sherlock stopped walking. 

John stopped too, a few steps ahead, and turned back to look at him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock made a face, half annoyed and half uncertain. "I explained this, John," he said. "You couldn't know, it was imperative, it-- "

"Why?" said John. "Didn't you trust me to keep it secret? Or didn't you think I could help you?"

Sherlock stared at him. "Neither," he said. "It was the best way to keep you alive."

John sighed. "Okay," he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Okay, I know that, but Sherlock-- you don't get to make those decisions for me. I understand-- I appreciate it, but I'm forty years old, I think I'm capable of making decisions for myself. With _all_ the relevant information to consider. Also just-- Sherlock, I'm here, I've been here this whole time and I'm not going anywhere-- I want to _help_."

Sherlock was silent for a long time. "I'm not," he said at last, pausing to search carefully for the words, "You understand, John, that it isn't often people take up with me with such fervour. Or at all, come to that. I-- I don't factor help or…companionship into my plans. People have a tedious and somewhat unhelpful predilection for unreliability."

"Yeah," said John. "I'm not people, Sherlock."

"No," said Sherlock. "That is entirely why I went to such lengths when I realised Moriarty was going to kill you. Although as far as unreliability…I find myself consistently unable to predict your reactions."

"Well," said John, "The next time you leave me out of the loop like that, my reaction won't be a good one, I can tell you that much."

Sherlock's mouth quirked into an almost-smile. "I will…try," he said. 

"Okay," said John quietly. They walked a block in silence; John's hands in his coat pockets, his head tilted up to watch the sky. He knew Sherlock still didn't quite understand, was in part just humouring him until he figured it out. "There's more to it than just knowing best, you know?" he said after a long consideration. "The smartest choice isn't always…isn't always the right one."

Sherlock made a face. "Ugh," he said. 

John snorted a laugh and reached out to pat consolingly at Sherlock's arm. "I know." 

 

It was another three days before Lestrade called. John was mostly immensely relieved, although there was a part of him that didn't want to let Sherlock out of the flat ever, even if it meant the place would eventually collapse in on itself in some kind of mad vortex. Either way he'd been expecting longer. Lestrade didn't call him to consult on every case-- John was sure that when he did it was partly out of pity but he could never bring himself to say no anyway, and occasionally there was a legitimate case for the lack of official manpower slash expertise Lestrade always cited as his real reason. 

Of those three days John spent every night in Sherlock's bed. 

They didn't talk about it, but John insisted that Sherlock keep normal hours for at least a week and Sherlock put up surprisingly little resistance, crawling under the covers beside John and turning on his side. 

It was surprising mainly considering that in the seventy-two hours between his return and Lestrade's summons Sherlock had upended every box in his bedroom and made only vague attempts at any kind of organisation therein, somehow procured a delivery of human eyes which had Mrs Hudson in a frenzy and John vehemently explaining how Lestrade learning of Sherlock's return when coming to arrest him was _not_ preferable to texting, and managed to shrink John's favourite jumper in a complicated series of experiments involving one of the eyes, their entire supply of milk and the kitchen sink which John decided he'd rather not know the exact details of. He did reroute all the washing up to Mrs Hudson's kitchen downstairs. 

All these things when he wasn't watching John with narrowed eyes and an unearthly stillness that made John's fingers twitch and was driving him not altogether unpleasantly mental.

It was utter chaos, and it was bloody brilliant.

 

When John's phone did ring it was while Sherlock was occupied thrashing out a particularly fiery solo rendition of Beethoven's Ninth, and John had to shout "Sherlock!" three times before Sherlock turned from the window with the violin still tucked under his chin, looking annoyed. 

John waved his phone. "There's been a murder," he said. 

Sherlock's expression cleared. "Brilliant!" he said. 

He threw the violin and bow onto his chair and swept up his coat from where it was tossed over the back. 

"Well, come on," he said, glancing back at John from the doorway.

John shook his head, grinning. 

 

"You're nervous," said Sherlock as they approached the crime scene-- a damp carpark attached to the back of an empty for-lease office building. 

"Of course I'm bloody nervous," said John. 

"Fascinating," said Sherlock. 

John sighed. "Just don't-- I don't know, say anything particularly likely to get you punched."

Sherlock tilted his head. "It's been my experience that most things I say elicit that response."

John twitched a smile. "True," he said. "Well, Lestrade will be glad to see you anyway, even if he is pissed. Donovan may be a little disappointed."

"Unfortunate," said Sherlock flatly. John laughed. 

"Okay," he said, sobering, "Here we are. I can't see-- "

"You have _got_ to be joking," said Donovan, staring with her coffee halfway to her mouth. 

Sherlock looked a little too delighted for John's liking. 

"Hello, Donovan," he said. "I trust you and Anderson enjoyed yourselves in the lab this morning. Although in the future I suggest you ask him to clean his blood spatter analysis more thoroughly beforehand."

Donovan opened her mouth furiously but Lestrade called out before she could say anything. "Is that John?" he said, appearing around the side of an ambulance. 

"Sort of," said Donovan. 

"What-- Jesus Christ." Lestrade stopped short. " _Sherlock?_ "

"Obviously," said Sherlock, sweeping grandly past him. "Where's the body?"

"Er," said Lestrade, glancing at John. 

John shrugged apologetically. 

Lestrade appeared to snap awake after another moment. "Now wait just one bloody second," he said, turning and marching after Sherlock. 

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly from where he was already crouched over the body. 

"So-- you're alive then," said Lestrade, hands in his pockets. 

"Excellent observation, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock. 

"Hasn't changed, has he?" said Lestrade to John. 

"No," said John. "No, he hasn't."

"Where's her watch?" said Sherlock abruptly. 

"Her what?" said Lestrade. 

"Watch! She had a watch! Where is it?"

"She wasn't wearing one," said Lestrade.

Sherlock whipped out his phone and began punching furiously at the screen. 

"Okay, hang on," said Lestrade, holding up a hand. "I know it's your life's pursuit to drive me completely mental, but you can't just march into my crime scene like nothing's happened. You know how much bloody scrutiny I went through because of you? Every case you consulted on reviewed. Nearly lost my job."

Sherlock glanced up at that. "Yes," he said. "The circumstances of my death were-- regrettable."

Lestrade frowned. "Is he trying to apologise?" he said to John. 

"Yeah," said John. 

Sherlock's head snapped up again. "I'm not-- " He stopped, catching John's eye. "Oh, fine."

"Okay," said Lestrade slowly. "Well, I'm glad you're not dead. It's been a bloody boring nineteen months."

"Where's the second victim?" said Sherlock.

"There was a second victim?" said John, glancing around. 

"She's on her way to the hospital," said Lestrade. "The wounds weren't fatal."

Sherlock hummed to himself and leaned in to peer at the victim's hair. 

"By the way, I expect to hear the whole story over a pint," said Lestrade, half to Sherlock and half to John, moving off to talk to one of the forensics team. 

John nodded absently and watched Sherlock a moment longer-- the way his coat flared out behind his crouch, the way his hair caught in the chill breeze, the way he leaned in to sniff at the victim's throat, looking thoughtful-- then shook his head fondly and wandered off to find one of the medics, ask about the second intended victim. 

She was nice, soft-spoken and obliging even if she stood a little too close. Or maybe he was just out of practise with normal interaction, which...was a slightly frightening thought.

He was so used to seeing the separate entities of Sherlock and his coat whirling around in his peripheral that he didn't notice until Sherlock was grabbing him by the lapels, hauling him in and kissing him.

" _Sherlock_ ," he hissed when Sherlock finally pulled away, "What-- we're in the middle of a crime scene."

Sherlock ignored him. "He's taken," he said curtly, turning to narrow his eyes at the medic. 

She raised one delicate, slightly amused eyebrow and moved off towards the ambulance. 

" _Sherlock_ ," said John again. "I was just asking her how the second victim was doing."

"Don't be dense, John, you may have been asking but she was flirting with you. Even Lestrade noticed."

"Oi," said Lestrade. 

"Right," said John blankly. "Also," he added belatedly, "What the _hell?_ "

Sherlock looked at him. "You haven't slept in your own bed since I returned," he said. "I admit that I'm not well-versed in emotional social interactions-- "

"-- Or social interactions of any kind-- "

"-- But even I am aware this isn't an ordinary arrangement between ordinary friends."

"I," said John. 

"Do you object?" said Sherlock. 

John looked at him: his mouth, slightly slick because oh right, he'd just _kissed_ John, his stupid alien eyes, his even stupider mop of wild curls, the edge of a winter flush staining his cheeks. The serious, clever set to his features, the slightly mad shine in his eyes, the hidden snit ever ready to push out into a pout. All of him real, all of him _alive_. "No," he said. 

Sherlock's mouth twitched in an almost-smile and he swooped in, dramatic coat-swirl and all, to kiss John again, sure and warm and overwhelming. 

"Christ," said John, slightly muffled, coming to his senses and trying to wrestle away. "Of course you're a massive exhibitionist, you unmitigated show-off."

Sherlock didn't disagree. He just said, "Mine," pressing a thumb into the side of John's throat.

John crossed his arms. "I'm not a _coat_ , you-- "

"Uh, boys?" said Lestrade. "Maybe you could move this indoors, yeah?" He shrugged. "Just a suggestion."

"Lestrade," said Sherlock without stepping away from John, "Your killer is male, approximately five feet eight inches tall, wearing-- or was wearing, he'll have discarded it if he's any sense-- a grey woollen coat, expensive, well-made. He'll have sawdust on the soles of his shoes, which are cheap, athletic-- a feeble attempt to disguise his identity. Oh, and he's still here."

"What?" said John.

"What?" said Lestrade. "What do you mean, still here?"

"He's still here somewhere," said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes and glancing around-- the small gathering crowd, the surrounding buildings, the silent parked cars. "So perhaps you should set about arresting your killer instead of listening to me explain how you missed the most obvious of signs." His lips curled in a slightly mocking, pleased-with-himself smile. "Just a suggestion."

Lestrade blinked and whipped around, barking orders at the surrounding officers. 

"Care to explain?" said John mildly. 

Sherlock grinned.


End file.
